Spinning Plates

The dress was swishy. Christine couldn't stop walking with a little sashay in order to feel the soft fabric swirl around her calves. Meg looked at her critically.

"Turn."

Christine obliged, spinning on the spot.

"This could be the one. The other is more business: cute, but not childish, pretty on your figure, boho enough to say 'artist', classy enough to not say 'starving artist.' This one definitely says 'I am beautiful yet unconventional, worship me'. And you wanted to wear the same thing twice? Girl, you are so lucky you have me. But what shoes?"

The shopping trip had gone on for nearly two hours and Christine was longing to go to the comfortable quiet of the theater and talk to Erik about Lakme, and how the hell she was going to be able to master the Bell Song. Of course, she had had to explain some of the story to Meg, who was like a dog with a bone. As they went in search of shoes, Meg began chewing the story yet again.

"So, the other dress is for the real estate guy and your meeting with him and some people who want to buy your art?"

"Right."

"And this dress is for a date with this…"

"It's not a date!" Christine moaned, for the hundredth time.

"So says you, missy. So, the other dress is for your not-date with same guy…" Meg arched an eyebrow, "…whassisname?"

"Raoul."

"Who is basically swimming in money, and gorgeous, and sweet, and trying to help you achieve your dreams, but – and let me get myself absolutely clear on this- but who is not interesting to you…because of who?"

"I can't…"

"Ah, yes. The guy who you can't even name to your best friend. But he's your voice teacher. He doesn't even merit a dress?" Meg's eyebrow had not descended a millimeter. She pushed some shoes into Christine's hands.

Well, his name's Erik, but really, Meg. I don't even know if he notices what I'm wearing. It's my voice and…just me…I guess, that he cares about. He's not like any man I've met before." Truer words were never spoken, she thought.

"Have you ever dressed up for him before?" Meg pushed in, wanting details. It had been forever since either one of them had been in a satisfyingly colorful romance.

"Well, no. Not really, I guess." Her thoughts flew back to the night she was late. He certainly noticed then, but he had not been happy. After all, the dress had been worn for another man. This other man. Suddenly, Christine wanted to go to bed and pull the blankets over her head.

"You should, you know. Do you want to pick out something special? C'mon, Christine. You can't be all business, all the time. Let's pick out something just for him." It delighted Meg when Christine stopped being an artist for a few minutes.

"Fine. But I really don't know what he would…wait…" Christine began to grin. "Ok. Let me tell you what I want."

It took a while, but they finally managed to put together an outfit that satisfied Christine's requirements.

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.

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Christine showed up at the opera house in her usual threadbare outfit, but dragging a wheeled cooler and carrying a large takeout bag.

"Christine, what is that?"

"Food for us tonight, and then for you for the next few days. And more first aid stuff. I am already betting you've done more with your hands than you should. May I look at them, please?"

Erik accompanied her to the stage where she examined his hands and exclaimed over how he simply had to be more gentle with them – just look how the bandage had been bled through! She rewrapped them, then began hunting for a small table in the wings. She had to make do with a props-desk, which she lugged out to center stage while he stared, bemused. Shortly, she had take-out from an Italian place laid out on the table with plastic ware and paper napkins.

"Ok, dinner's served. Come and get it." He hesitated and she walked over to him. "Yes. I'm requesting that you take off the mask, come sit down with me, and eat."

"You won't be able to eat."

"Of course I will. I can sing, I can eat…it'll be fine. Besides, if you wait, it's going to get cold. Italian is meant to be eaten hot." She kept her tone light and a smile on her face.

Erik balanced on a fine edge between wanting so much to sit down and have dinner like any other man and the sheer embarrassment of eating in front of her. The mask had to come off as promised, but he was far from believing she would be able to eat if he sat opposite her. To refuse the food, however, would be the height of ungrateful incivility. Rather than risk being impolite, he removed hat and mask and sat down at the impromptu table. Christine, beaming approval, sat across from him and lifted her fork.

"I got spinach ravioli, because I didn't know if you eat meat or not." She tried to understand his continued hesitation. Looking directly at his face did make her feel a little queasy still, so she concentrated on cutting a ravioli in half for a moment, before she found the will to lift both the fork and her eyes at the same time. Seeing him in artistic terms allowed her to chew and swallow without averting her gaze. Still, he did not eat.

"If you don't like this, I have other stuff. Here, I'll go pull out someth…"

He shook his head and reached for his own fork. For years he'd watched others eat together at galas and dress dinners. He had learned and copied their manners. He knew all the etiquette of the dinner table. None of that erased what had gone before or silenced the echoes in his memory. He could do this, though. She would not laugh. He cut a small bite, so his mouth would not gape too freakishly, brought it to his lips, and stopped.

Christine gulped another bite, then raised an eyebrow. "Go on, Erik. Tell me. What is it, if it's not the food? Get it out so that it only has to feel this way this one time."

"The deformity," he muttered, resenting the truth, "makes it impossible for me to eat as you do."

She examined his face gravely for a moment, then nodded. "I can see how that would be."

"It may be offensive to you. Or amusing. I would be grateful," he wondered how he would get a bite past the lump of embarrassment in his throat, "if you did not laugh."

"As they did." She softly suggested the source of his discomfort.

"Yes. As they did."

"I could never laugh at you. I kind of think you already know that. But, listen, I promise I won't laugh at you, ok? You deserve to eat in peace," she caught his eye and gave him a wry grin, "while it's still warm."

It turned out that the ravioli was delicious…even cold.

Later, as Christine was bemoaning the impossibility of ever getting the Bell Song right, he reflected on the meal. He had eaten more in one sitting than he had in the past several days. And she had not flinched. The discomfort was there, in her eyes, but shadowed by her determination. If she could do that, she could do anything.

"Breathe, support the note. Allow it to come naturally. You can do this."

She nodded, began again, brought her production closer and closer to her intentions. Long before her voice got tired, though, she begged him to sing with her. The evening passed in congenial musicianship. Though there were a thousand things she knew must eventually be discussed, Christine had decided to take her dinner victory and hold it for a while.

When he had given her the official "go home" line, she nodded, but reminded him, "All that food is for you, so you don't have to cook. So, make sure you use it. And, the next time you see me, I may be a much richer woman, you know."

"I know. Be well, Christine." He would say nothing to diminish her joy in finally being recognized for her work. "I wish you the best of luck in your meeting."

"If it's enough money, maybe I can quit my other job."

"That would be ideal. Then you could concentrate on your…"

"Singing." She interrupted. "I could be here longer, so I wouldn't have to push as hard in each lesson. And we could get some real work done on this place."

He just shook his head. "Goodnight, Christine. Be well."

.

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Friday came and Christine discovered that she was not afraid of this meeting at all. Compared to the challenges she faced elsewhere, a room full of wealthy buyers hardly merited a second thought. Christine walked in ten minutes early, carrying her massive portfolio, to find Raoul already waiting for her. He scooped the case out of her arms and led her to the conference room where the meeting would be held.

"You might want to take a moment and arrange these. Too much paper shuffling once they arrive could be distracting." He grinned cheesily, and she knew what was coming before he said it. "Speaking of distracting, Christine, you're a vision!"

"Thanks, Raoul. You really know how to boost a lady's confidence." Christine began setting out her works, remembering each place with fondness. It had been so long since she'd gone hunting for new subjects…

"All right. They're here. Get comfy and I'll bring them in."

The buyers were far more down-to-earth people than Christine had expected. A successful couple in their early 60's, they had been charmed by the subject matter and amazed by the skill of the artist. They were interested primarily in establishing a private collection. They had friends, however, who might also be interested in this style of work. Would she be willing to consider particular subjects for commissions?

She certainly would, if the commission were adequate to her needs.

Throughout, Raoul sat quietly at one end of the table, nodding and occasionally throwing in a suggestion. Christine marveled at his casual ability to take an offer and increase it without seeming to say much of anything. By the time the meeting ended, she held a sizable check in her hand and was reasonably confident she could quit her job.

Her buyers, and now collectors of her art, left with many smiles and handshakes and overly familiar hugs. Raoul stayed behind, helping Christine to arrange her few remaining works in her portfolio.

"That was successful, don't you think, Christine?" he gave her a smile and a wink.

"AllI can say is wow. Wow. I don't know how yo do it…"

"I didn't do anything!" He sounded aghast at the notion. "This is all your work. I am merely honored to be the one who discovered you…literally in the streets, you know."

She laughed. He was being pompous on purpose, ridiculing his own wealth and power – and being utterly charming in the process. And then he was standing so close to her, smelling deliciously of some expensive cologne and looking like something from a GQ ad. He did not touch her, but his attraction to her was palpable, making the air oddly and uncomfortably hot. The contrast to Erik -hideous and always smelling of cellar spaces and chill dampness- struck her powerfully.

"Christine, you are an extraordinary woman. Getting to know you promises to be quite an adventure." His hand, warm and strong, found its way to her elbow as he walked her from the room. "I must admit, I am on pins and needles about Sunday." He stopped walking and squared off with her. "What is it about you that makes me feel this way?"

Christine backed away with a conciliatory smile. "I…I don't know Raoul. I'm just me, you know?" She stopped, took a deep breath, grounded herself. "But we will talk on Sunday. I'm looking forward to it, too." She started heading towards the door.

"Don't be in such a hurry! Stay, come sit in my office, have a drink and chat awhile. We could lay out a strategy for your career." He seemed to test the emotional weather on her face. "Or discuss the political climate. Or football."

"I would. I…really…would like to. But I've promised to meet a friend. My friend, Meg. And she'll be waiting for me. And I've got my singing lesson later so I have to get all this stuff home…" Christine began fumbling for excuses, caught herself, and shut her mouth.

"Then I am bereft," he said, with a broad gesture of his hands. His tone was still light, but Christine thought she detected a hint of genuine disappointment amidst the joking. "I will be forced to wait until Sunday."

"Right. But we can talk about all that stuff on Sunday. And you can go on about your projects, too. But I really have to run, now." She paused in the doorway, looking back at his slightly crestfallen demeanor, and decided to throw him the bone that he very much deserved. "Thank you so much, Raoul. You've been a godsend, really. I'll see you Sunday."

That evening, even as she celebrated achieving her dream of being a working artist with Erik -who was really exceptionally gracious about the whole thing, considering- Christine felt her dread of the not-a-date growing. She could not talk with her teacher about it; it was clearly all he could do to be happy for her success, and that only because he loved her so deeply.

He brightened when they began her lesson and the Bell Song fell from her lips with greater ease and clarity than it had before and actually smiled when they began to practice the duets between Lakme and Nilakantha (Erik could not yet bring himself to sing to Christine as a lover, though the very thought electrified him). Christine focused on keeping the mask off his face and his hands in working order. On eating with him and talking with him about comfortable, safe things.

Meg had nothing but encouragement for a burgeoning romance between Christine as Raoul, whom she regarded as a mix of some sort of romantic lead from a soap opera and a miracle straight from the heavens. As far as Meg was concerned, Raoul was both a fabulous gentleman and a ticket up. No matter how Christine insisted that her heart belonged to another, Meg kept pushing her to "see reason." Eventually, rather than argue, Christine threw up her hands and granted Meg access to her on Sunday before the date. That evening, Meg arrived with a bucket of makeup and an excited twinkle in her eye.

"When I'm done with you, Raoul won't be able to walk without tripping over his tongue."

"Awesome," Christine chirped outwardly, but groaned inwardly. "I can't wait!"